ME AND BOBBI©
by George Wilkerson
At Least I'm Not Gay
Ed. Note: Bobbi, George, is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outting herself to the world.
We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting. Earlier articles in the series can be found at
Bobbi's Web Site
You can also write to the author
"That's what she said." I try to look her in the eye, but because she's
looking into a magnifying mirror and trying to glue on a lash, the eye is twice its
normal size. She reminds me of a giant squid peering through a submarine window.
"Those were her exact words...'at least I'm not gay.'" She stops and steps back from
the mirror. "I really do wish you wouldn't play dumb with me. You were standing right
there and heard her yourself. And," she adds, blinking, "I do not look like a squid."
She turns to the side. "Is it on straight?" she asks.
Bobbi
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"I don't know," I say. "I don't have my glasses on and if I put them on I won't be
able to see the eyelash. This routine with the eyelashes is the worst part of this."
She nods. "I know...getting old is such a..." "...drag," I mumble, but she
doesn't laugh. "So what's your problem with Jack's...I mean, Jackie's remark?"
She turns and puts her hands on her hips. "It's homophobia," she says. "And the homo
she's phobic about is herself." "But she's not gay." "Methinks she doth
protest too much," she says, dramatically. "But that's not what bothered me, really.
It's the way she made the remark, as if she had just lifted some great burden off of
her shoulders...'at least I'm not gay.'" "But she's not gay, right? And if
she's not gay, why can't she say so?" "You are missing the point," she says,
gesturing at me in the mirror. "It's the 'at least' part. She's saying 'Hey,
don't be upset with me. It could be worse." "Oh." "She's damning gays the way
she doesn't want people damning her. Can you see her going to a City Council meeting
and asking for legal protection for crossdressers because, hey, at least they're not
gay?" "Well, you know, politics being what it is..." "You know your problem?"
she says, waving her finger at me. "Your problem is that you're too damn wishy-washy.
One of these days we're going to find ourselves in a place where we have to take a
stand on things. And believe me, this issue could very well b e one of those places."
I can tell this is turning into one of those tirades and I wonder if it's that
time of month. I start calculating. "Sexual preference isn't the point, my dear.
The point is that she's dumping big time on the gays when she says that. She's asking
for acceptance on the basis of whether or not she's gay. Accept me because I'm not
gay. Well, dammit, being gay is OK. All r ight? It's all right to be straight, and
it's all right to be gay, and it's all right to be bi, too, for that matter. Our
focus ought to be on gender, not on sexual preference. Frankly, I don't think one's
sexual preference is anybody's damn business. Am I right?" "Twenty-eight days," I
reply without thinking. "What?" "It's been twenty-eight days since you got
worked up like this before. I think you're having PMS." "And what is that
supposed to mean?" she asks. "Nothing...I'm sorry. I was just wondering...I
mean..."
George |
She steps away from the mirror and toward the door. "I don't know how
you can do that. Here I am talking very seriously about something and you're counting
the days since my last tirade. Am I supposed to find that cute?" I shake my head.
"I know exactly what you said," I say softly. "Because I said it too. And you know I
agree with you because it's exactly how I feel." She doesn't reply. We're at the
door now and she's pointing to the living room. "I think you'd better go away," she
says. "Before you say something you'll regret." "If only you could get rid of me
that easily," I reply. "But you need my help with the other eyelash." She sighs.
"Maybe it IS that time of month," she says. I shrug and walk with her back to the
mirror. "Maybe it is," I say, smirking a little. "But at least you're not gay."
She smiles. "That," she says, lifting the eyelash from its place, "is nobody's damn
business." And then, raising the eyelash toward her eye she deftly snaps it into
place and smiles at her success. "Nobody's business," she says, stroking my thigh,
"except
yours."
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